“Hey, Pops, got a minute?”

The flimsy came down, the stogie smoke puffed, and Head of Blok Security Pawlie stared at me and the boys behind me suspiciously. “You again.” He sounded defeated. “What, the ghosts up top aren’t enough to keep you busy?”

Naturally we were the talk of the blok for living up there. When I’d turned on the water supply to 160, tremors ran through the blok’s employees. I really did live up there...

“Hey, I’m setting up hydroponics up there. Enough with the attitude, or you won’t ever get any of the fresh squash.”

He looked at me, thought about that, and in a pragmatic manner, set down the flimsy, leaned forwards on his chair, and set his cigar aside calmly. “Well, bribery is always the way to my heart,” he said, completely serious, folding his hands on the other side of the security wall. “What do you want, Miss Rantha?”

I indicated the boys behind me. “Part-time jobs for the lads as Blok Auxiliaries. I checked the standard blok hiring protocols, and you’ve got room for a few dozen deputies, and scores of part-time auxiliaries. They aren’t up for full-time yet, they’d need proper training, but they’ll do fine as extra eyes and ears, and muscle where needed.”

He frowned at me, chomping on his mustache. “You making some sort of play, girl? I don’t want no gang wars starting up in my blok.”

“The ghosts upstairs don’t really like some of the elements in the blok here, so we’re gonna clear things up. What makes the ghosts happy, makes the blok happy. And besides,” I snapped my fingers.

Six green mindblades rose up behind me, and flared with Nimbus empowerment. He stared despite himself.

“I’m gonna be training more of these fellows. You know psis. They tend to loathe zwilniks, and they like peace, quiet, and discipline. There’ll probably be some fighting, and then there’ll be quiet, and more people will be moving in.”

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. His pay was based on the number of blok inhabitants, after all, supposedly to encourage him to have a good, prosperous blok. If someone else was willing to do all the hard work, he certainly wouldn’t mind reaping the rewards.

“Auxiliaries, huh?” Having some ex-bangers working for him... the idea was funny, but those mindblades were not. Where had I found a bunch of blade boys like this? “Well, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.” He reached down, the door buzzed and opened. “Step on in and let’s work out the particulars...”

---------------

Dr. McMikal was the primary medicae for Habberblok. As expected for a doctor who worked in a building capped by multiple ghosts, he was something of a character.

A former combat medic for the Imperial Legions sponsored by Janus Prime, he had mustered out after putting in his time, and had been assigned to a blok as caretaker, both collecting his pension and getting put back to work in a place where his brand of medicine was in need. Most combat medics, coming as they did from the lower-classes, usually ended up back in the same strata they came from, tending to their fellow low-class citizens’ ills.

Medical technology had come a long way over the millennia, and even basic medical care was at a far higher standard. Birth vaccinations and immunizations, anti-viral compounds put into everyday drinking water and food, and even released into the atmosphere, kept most lower order diseases under control. Genetic weaknesses and imperfections had long been weeded out of the genome, and if they occurred, were generally a sign of Warp mutation and something nasty coming along with it.

On the flip side, the human genome had also been profoundly mucked with over the centuries. Slave soldiers modified with the genes of animals, bioengineering for specific traits, cross-hereditary stamping, unisexual reproduction, cosmetic and combat modifications, environmental adaptation strains, and psionic shifting, along with all the interesting stuff the Warp did, meant a weird host of things could occur to the human population. Discerning what caused them and why was most of the doctor’s job, as fixing it after that point tended to be pretty easy, frequently at the end of a .25 credit slug.

On top of all of this was the drug problem. Low-end food tended to be full of mood suppressants, rendering those who ate it more accepting of their state of existence. On top of that, many low-end workers relied on drugs instead of video games for release from the tedium of their existence, and used mood enhancers to get through the drudgery of their work day.

As a result, the drug trade was a reality of life, and standard Juris largely ignored it, because it was so endemic. The addicts were going to get their fix, one way or another, and with the number of users and the amount of money at stake, there was great pressure from both above and below to just let it ride. The reports of zwilniks hitting one another in their endless quests for territory and power were basically the evening’s entertainment, and talked about like favorite sports teams.

The addicts didn’t much care who supplied them, so sweeping one group away and coming in to replace them was a thing. Don’t offer a good price, however, and your business would drop like a rock as they went and found another readily available pusher.

Dr. McMikal ran a unique service. He tested all drugs brought to him for a nominal fee, basically the cost of the time of the man who ran the service. He figured that making sure people got what they paid for, and not some crazyass concoction that would get them killed in short order, kept them generally healthier and took care of them better. It also kept the zwilniks honest, as cutting their drugs with the wrong shit could have really bad side-effects, and getting caught at it meant their entire cash cow could walk away. On the other side, a contaminated supply could kill off that cow, and they didn’t want that to happen, either.

So Dr. Mick ended up catering to both sides of the equation, with both suppliers and buyers getting tested at the office adjacent to the main medicae treatment center. The blunt honesty of the results had ended up resolved more than a few times with shootings on the spot, or shortly thereafter, which also generated occasional business. He was the most trusted man in the blok, fully capable of shooting a batshit crazy addict coming in demanding a hit, fixing the guy up, negotiating payment with him on the surgical table, and if he didn’t pay up, shooting him in the head once he was all fixed up. He’d fixed up and then shot more than a few gangers that way, and any of them who threatened him in his place had ended up as examples of What Not To Do. The two punks who’d threatened his staff and died over the course of a week while tied up in the glass showcase rooms and turning into motile black mushrooms had made an impression on a lot of people. When gangers showed up at his door bleeding out, no matter how desperate they were, they were polite and brought their money with them.

Naturally it was time to make an acquaintance with him. So, I called up and made an appointment for lunch, asking if he liked pasta, a time was set, and here I was now, showing up with a dish in my hand.

Had to go Upspire for the flour, and make my own noodles, and buy some real tomatoes on the sly. Was an experience.

“Hey there, I’m Sama. Here for my lunch appointment with the doc.”

The nurse had a gyropistol in her drawer and a shotgun under the desk. I noticed the front of her desk was configured for easy replacement, and the fire lane was kept carefully clear of other obstructions.

“You’re the one who lives in the Top Fifty?” Despite herself, the middle-aged woman was wary.

“That’s me!” I agreed, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Very quiet up there. Nobody bugs me when I need to rest.”

She gave me a really weird look. “I’m supposed to confirm that you really do have pasta with you.”

I set the pan on her desk, flipped out a disposable plate, a plastic fork in sterile wrapper, opened the top of the pan, smoothly scooped out a piece of lasagna with the spatula in my other hand, set it on the plate, and pushed it in front of her.

She looked at the gooey mess of tomatoes, herbs, faux cheeses, and layers of pasta, and almost started drooling right there. She bent her head down just so she could smell it.

“Go right in. Hallway left, second hallway on right, first office on the right.” She stripped off the fork, and sliced off a small piece, bringing it up to her mouth and then sitting back just to enjoy it.

There were three other people in the waiting room, waiting for a nurse to come help them with various ills and stuff, and they were all staring at her with wide eyes.

She slid the drawer of her desk open with her other hand, but didn’t stop enjoying her meal.

I strolled on past as she buzzed the door open, taking the pan with me. Nobody got up to ask her for a taste of her lasagna.

---

As she said, it was left, pass, right, first door. I knocked on it and said, “Your pasta is here!”

There was a click as the reinforced door unlocked, and I stepped inside.

Doc Mick was of average height and stout build. He kept himself in good shape, the better to manhandle some of the punks who he ended up dealing with, and because current medical tech made it easy to do so.

He had an artificial eye, boosted reflexes for better motor control, and an artificial hand, legacies of twenty years of fighting the enemies of the Empire. At least, I didn’t think he’d added any more implants since he’d come back home. His hair was black and thick, his six-hour beard was thicker than most men’s full day, and his eyes were dark and assessing.

And zeroed right in on the pan I was holding.

“You have my time and interest, for as long as the pasta holds out!” he stated with no compunctions.

“Ah, the pharma reps still bugging you?” I asked, setting down the pan and bringing out the disposable tablewear. “I’m surprised they even want to visit you here.”

“They keep their eyes on the floor,” he just laughed, and stuck out his hand. “Doctor Mack McMikal, but everyone calls me Doc Mick.”

“Sama Rantha.” I took it, he applied pressure, I applied it back, and he pursed his lips and decided not to test his servos.

“Nice grip!” he said.

“Nice model. Five years old?” I asked, and he glanced at his hand, then at the dripping goo coming off the lasagna’s many layers.

“Six, but who’s counting?” He waved away the plastic knife, opening up a drawer behind him with a set of silverware in sterile confinement. He formally offered me a real fork and knife, I accepted, and I sat down in the chair there with my own plate.

“You’ll have to excuse the cheeses. Getting the real stuff is nigh impossible, it’s pretty much all snapped up by Upspire eateries and households.”

He waved it off. “I am unfortunately familiar with the reality of the situation.” He sucked in a long string of melted neocheese, chomping happily. “Excellent noodle texture, the sauce is wonderfully balanced. Did you mix it yourself?”

“Yes. There’s a couple eatery levels up in the Top Fifty, with loads of some very high-end cooking equipment. I had to play around with the stuff a bit, but it came out okay.” Yay for four Ranks in Cooking! I was the equivalent of a Master Chef, if not world-class. “I’ll get better. I’m gonna start putting in hydroponic gardens up there, grow some real food.”

“There won’t be any side effects from the spirits?” He glanced at the ceiling warily, looked at his lasagna, then shrugged and dug in again.

“Growing things are one of the ways to naturally disperse tremendous concentrations of negative emotions like that. Plants are Nature’s recyclers, after all. It’ll probably take a few centuries, but if the Top Fifty is converted into acting gardens, we can get rid of the Tau Rating just by growing good food and planting flowers.”

“Really.” He seemed impressed. “Well, that’s definitely cheaper than trying to hire it done.”